The Adventure of the Census Scribe
by sherlockdrinkstea
Summary: A fun adventure in Victorian London. Sherlock and Watson have to investigate a mysterious explosion at Waterloo Station. Scandal and excitement will follow!
1. Chapter 1

Five o'clock in the morning. Rain pelted the windows of 221B Baker Street, steaming the glass, beading the inside ledges with pearly moisture. I dozed for a while, listening to the soothing patter, then jerked upright when water dripped onto my forehead. Mumbling curses and fumbling for socks, I rolled away from the leak. The flat was silent. Empty. Foreboding. I rubbed the ghostly fingers of sleep out of my eyes and glanced up at the clock on the mantle. It had been 12 hours since my closest (and only) friend Mr Sherlock Holmes had left our apartment, armed solely with his wits, fists and revolver. 12 hours since I had heard the deafening rapport of bullets crack the evening hush, and seen the blue lights of police cars flicker and dance across the face of buildings. 12 hours and no sign of Holmes. I shivered in the cool morning air. Holmes was fiercely intelligent. Infuriatingly enigmatical. A genius detective, brilliant musician and a fighter to be reckoned with. He was also an appalling tea brewer (not that I would ever tell him that), hopelessly addicted to nicotine and had one of the sharpest minds in the world. I knew Holmes could look after himself. But that didn't stop me from worrying.

He returned to 221B 15 hours after he had left it. Typical. His heavy knock disturbed me from my position by the fireplace, and I opened the door to find Holmes swaying in the hallway, face haggard and drawn but an ecstatic smile plastered on his lips. He was soaking wet, his white shirt was spattered with blood and a gaudy pink feather was lodged in his dark curls. I stared at him quizzically, eyebrows beetling. Holmes shrugged and staggered past me, grinning manically and weaving on unsteady feet. He finally collapsed into the hunter green folds of his usual armchair with a contented sigh. The armchair was in the very centre of the room - equivalent in position to the sun in our solar system. I poured Holmes some brandy. It was 8 o clock in the morning but he looked like he needed it.

"Holmes."

"Yes?"

"Did you solve the case?"

"I did indeed!" Holmes sat up straighter at the very mention of the mystery that had been plaguing him for the past month. His blue eyes crackled with a rarely seen energy – his deft fingers drummed the embroidered cushions.

"And?" I prompted, impatient to hear the conclusion of the puzzle we had both been working on. "It wasn't the cleaner, was it?"

"The librarian!" Holmes shook his head gleefully. "Everyone thought it was the cleaner but no! It was the gregarious, sociable, ill-mannered, humdrum Miss Redding! What a night!" He sank back into his pillows and let out a wheezy chuckle that instantly alerted my medical training.

"Now that doesn't sound good." I helped Holmes out of his sodden waistcoat. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Pub brawl." Holmes waved his hands dismissively. "Nasty business. Think I cracked a rib or two but it's nothing to worry about… How was your morning Watson? Save me any biscuits?" I blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden change in topic and startled by his comment. I had indeed spent the morning attacking my secret supply of shortbread, a supply that I kept hidden behind the book shelves because Holmes was a notorious shortbread devourer. Sensing my bewilderment, he laughed good -naturedly. "My dear Watson," he began, yawning like a cat, "there is no doubt in my mind that you were tearing into your 'secret' stash of all butter shortbreads whilst I was out all night in the downpour."

"But how?" I cried, "How did you know?" He laughed shrewdly, but had to stop when his voice rasped and his breath rattled. I gently placed my fingertips on his chest, trying to assess the damage to his rib cage. Holmes winced and continued.

"You may have brushed all the discriminating crumbs off your dressing gown, but there is still biscuit residue on your slippers and over there by the window where you stood gazing at the storm. You also appeared to inhale _nine_ mugs of tea in my absence… Darjeeling? No!" he corrected himself sharply. "Earl Grey. Obviously. And," he raised a slender forefinger, "you read 60 pages of that book you started last December, whilst seated in that chair with your feet on the coffee table." Holmes paused to take a shaky breath and I sat back, astounded. Even injured and exhausted to the point of fainting, he had accurately recounted my entire morning. I gaped dumbly and Holmes smiled, flattered by my admiration.

* * *

Holmes and I were locked in a desperate battle of chess that evening, (a battle I was destined to lose – Holmes was a strategic _mastermind_) when we were interrupted by 4 incessant raps on the door. Both our heads snapped up, game instantly forgotten, and we stared at the door with a crackling mixture of excitement and apprehension. My eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. It was 5.30pm on a Monday night and London was bathed in drizzle, but despite the ridiculously _ordinary_ setting, something amazing, something terrible, had happened tonight, and the person on the other side of the door was going to tell us about it. My spine tingled.

"Client?" I asked softly. Just to confirm. Holmes slowly nodded.

"Believe so." He murmured before leaping to his feet when the knock came again.

"Careful – your ribs!" I called, the doctor in me flaring to life when I saw Holmes grimace in pain.

"Damn my ribs." He growled, then he stalked over and yanked open the door. "Sherlock Holmes." His voice was cool. "How may I help you?"


	2. Chapter 2

The man in the doorway was definitely a client. It didn't matter that he was youngish, rakish, skinnyish and paleish; they were all superficial details. No. I knew he was a client because of the way he held himself, the way he stood, panting, in our doorframe. Behind his dust speckled spectacles, his eyes were haunted and hollow, his face gaunt and ashen. He was a client. He had seen great things, staggering things, and he, like the hundreds before him, had come seeking the help of the legendary Sherlock Holmes. I let the client pass and he entered the room wordlessly, dropping into _my_ armchair with the air of one who is a tad annoyed with the cards life had dealt him. Holmes and I sized him up silently whilst the man took several deep breaths before randomly plunging into speech.

"I'm Mr Farish. Rupert Farish, that is. And I need help." We nodded, gave our names in turn, and after a few other, tedious, pleasantries, Mr Farish presented his case.

"Gentlemen." Said he, "I have never had much to do with private detectives, but-"

"Ah, that is good then," interjected Holmes, "for I am a _consulting_ detective." Farish shot Holmes a curious glance, and my friend, making no apology for his interruption, sank back into his armchair. "Please, proceed. Regale us with your story and pray leave nothing out." He steepled his fingers together and looked at our guest expectantly. Farish blew his nose with an air of pompousness, but then continued his narrative.

"I have never had much to do with detectives of _any _shape or form, but because of the series of remarkable events at my place of work, Waterloo Station, you are our last line of hope, Mr Holmes. My tale is a puzzling one, and goes like this:

"I work the night shifts at Waterloo. It's a boring job, watching trains and checking tickets all night, but I can't complain. It pays the bills. Anyway, I always used to dream - wish even, that something exciting would happen. Something that would shatter the dreary monotony of my working life as a brick would a pane of glass, and bring adventure into my repetitive existence. It was just a fantasy. A daydream. I never expected it would come true-" Farish swallowed painfully. His long fingers plucked at the sleeves of his shirt. "Be careful what you wish for, right?" he murmured, a bitter light swimming to his eyes. "How I wish I never dreamed of adventure. Because adventure is a curse. Adventure came to Waterloo - and terrorism came with it." Farish took a shaky breath. "Two nights ago I was early for my shift. With nothing to do but wait, I sat alone in the staff lounge, drinking watery coffee."

From my position by the fire, I watched Holmes run his keen gaze over Farish. I could almost hear the intricate gears turning in my friend's head; so it did not surprise me when Holmes interrupted our client's narrative once more.

"Coffee. You were drinking coffee alone in the staff lounge?" Holmes repeated quietly.

"Yes."

"That is of great importance. What time was this?" Farish thought for a moment, spidery fingers stroking the stubble that was a forest on his chin.

"8.40 pm, I do believe."

"Thank you. Please, go on." Holmes settled back in his chair, posture languid, but face alight with interest. Farish cleared his throat.

"I had been in that dusty room alone for about 10 minutes – I know this for the station clock is visible from the window- when I felt the air in the silent lounge _shift_. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I instinctively got the feeling that something _bad_ was going to happen. I am not sure how I knew; perhaps it is a gift, but a few seconds later a huge EXPLOSION blasted through the room, knocking me off my feet. Heat assailed me and great gusts of blistering winds swept past the chamber. Plaster and flakes of paint billowed from the ceiling as I lay sprawled on the floor, stunned by the impact for what must have been 5 minutes, whilst I waited for the ringing in my ears to subside. Once I had recovered slightly I stumbled out of the lounge, vision askew and palpitating on unsteady feet, endeavouring to find the cause of the blast. A scene of unprecedented panic met me when I left the staff lounge, because at the hour of the blast the station had been alive with commuters. Men and women were running around, shouting; in the midst of the pandemonium I was hailed by at least 20 people. The public feel reassured by a man in a uniform in times of mayhem, and I was compelled to stop many a time in order to give comfort and assistance. I was completely surrounded by travellers who were demanding answers and assurance, but as I started to inch away from the crowd, something caught my eye. A fluorescent green jacket was making its way along the platforms, and the colour stood out horribly against the drab grey clothes of the typical Londoner. I recognised the jacket as being part of the rail guard uniform, for I wore an identical one myself, and what's more, I recognised the man who was wearing it: Brian Lamb, my colleague. He was walking away from me hurriedly, glancing around him in a paroxysm of nerves, and I remember viewing his conduct as… _suspicious_, because his shift had ended an hour earlier. What was Brian Lamb doing at the station after hours? Why was he walking _away_ from the site of the explosion? And why was he ignoring his obligation as a rail guard to help the panicked people of the station in their time of need? It was all very puzzling but I soon put Brian Lamb out of mind when I continued down the length of the station and found the obvious site of the explosion.


	3. Chapter 3

"As I am sure you know, Waterloo Station is awash with shops and stalls to cater to the every need of the weary traveller. Food stalls, pubs, newsagents and more clutter the space and the explosion had appeared to happen _inside_ one of them. I was startled to find that an outdated bookshop, as old as the station itself, was the apparent epicentre of the blast. The small shop had been rent in two by the force of the explosion and its blackened husk was littered with the smouldering remains of hundreds of incinerated books."

"What time was this, when you discovered the bookshop?" asked Holmes abruptly, and as I was so accustomed to his ways, I knew that he had already formed conjectures about the sequence of events that had been placed before him. Farish thought for a moment. "Hmm… it must have been ten to nine, Mr Holmes, for it took me about 15 minutes to reach the bookshop, delayed as I was," Holmes nodded with satisfaction.

"What did you do upon finding this damaged structure?" he queried, and Farish flung himself back into his story whilst I listened with avid interest and Holmes looked on with a contemplative gaze.

"Well," said the train guard, "my first action upon finding this charred site of destruction was, of course, to see if there were any injured people, perhaps badly burned, or trapped under a fallen roof beam. I was especially concerned for the safety of Mr Baxter, the gentleman who owned the bookshop, as it was a well-known fact that he spent large portions of the day inside his store. I was terrified that I was going to find his hideously scorched corpse - or something equally as odious - but my fears were groundless. As I drew closer it was plain that the shop was completely deserted. I was _utterly_ flummoxed. A massive explosion, and there was no blood, no casualties! We had obviously been extremelylucky in that at the point of the blast, nobody had been inside the bookshop, or for that matter, even near it. The police confirmed yesterday that the death and injury toll was marked at zero!"

"Incredible, considering the power of the blast, wouldn't you agree?" Holmes commented dryly and I got the feeling that there was a lot more to this case than met the eye. By the excited look on my friend's face, I knew that he had already arrived at the same conclusion. "May I ask what the police believe to be the cause of the explosion?" Holmes asked nonchalantly. Mr Farish took the time to moisten his lips with a special balm from his shirt pocket before answering.

"After a couple of hours of investigating the area, hearing eye witness accounts of the explosion – there were plenty – and looking through Mr Baxter's personal history and acquaintances they came to the conclusion that a bomb had been detonated at the station." Holmes snorted with open amusement.

"Obviously!" He exclaimed, waving his hands dismissively. "I'd have thought that was apparent from the start…Who is leading the police investigation, then?"

"A certain Sergeant Donavan." Replied Mr Farish, and this remark caused Holmes to break into a delighted grin.

"Of course." He gave a bemused chuckle. "That would explain why I wasn't involved in this case earlier. Sergeant Donovan and I are not on the best of terms, I'm afraid… What is the police theory as to the reason a bomb was detonated? I have one or two theories myself, but it would be useful to me to hear what the bright sparks of Scotland Yard think." Mr Farish folded his hands primly in his lap.

"The police believe that a criminal organisation, or a single criminal, set off the bomb to trouble Mr Baxter, as an act of revenge or something similar. They, and myself for that matter, believe that he is being persecuted by villains." Holmes furrowed his brow in thought.

"No, no that doesn't make any sense. If someone was to target Mr Baxter, they wouldn't destroy his shop, at least not at first. Surely his home, family or friends would be attacked…" He trailed off, following the line of thought deep into the recesses of his mind. We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, staring into the crackling flames of the hearth fire, before Holmes suddenly asked: "Do the police think that the bomb was an assassination attempt?"

"Yes." The answer came almost instantly. Holmes looked puzzled by the news - his eyes clouded over as he contemplated.

"A clumsy assassination attempt to say the least. It completely failed. There's something not quite right about this whole business-" He immediately stopped speaking. I looked at him, puzzled and concerned, but my companion brushed off my probing eyes and changed the subject. "Do the police have any suspects in this case, Mr Farish?" Our client seemed relieved that Holmes had stopped thinking and had become more communicative.

"The police suspect Mr O'Friar, the stationmaster."

"Why?"

"He was the last person to go into Mr Baxter's shop before the explosion."

"And?"

"Well, not only is that quite suspicious, but on the night of the incident he vanished. He's been missing ever since the bomb went off and the police are currently searching for him."

"Interesting." Pondered Holmes. "Just one more question, good sir… Why did you come and visit me when the police have this case in their _very_ capable hands?"

"Funny you should ask, Mr Holmes. I wasn't going to consult you at all, but I met an officer called Lestrade – he claims to know you – and he admitted that this explosion that killed no one and destroyed nothing of importance was a little mysterious. He said that you could maybe shine some light on the case. He recommended that I should consult you and here I am."

"I wish you had come to me sooner." Grumbled Holmes. "Two days since the explosion and all the evidence has most likely been washed away or corroded by the pull of time. But that wasn't what I meant. I wanted to know why _you _brought the case to me. You are a train guard, a mere acquaintance of Mr Baxter. Why did you take it upon yourself to include me in this conundrum?" Farish stared up at Holmes with flinty eyes that shone silver beneath bushy brows.

"Mr Baxter is my brother in law." He murmured. "It is my duty and desire to solve the mystery that surrounds his death, so after hearing your reputation and the recommendations from the police, I decided to pay you a visit." Holmes nodded slowly, before suddenly standing up. "Well then, this case certainly has some very strange and key features. I should like to follow a few of my hypothesises up to see if I can get to the bottom of this little tangle. If I could meet you here Friday at noon, Mr Farish, perhaps I'll have some answers. Come along Watson. We'll finish the chess later." And with that he bowed to our client, ripped his damp coat off the hanger and paced out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes and I sat in a carriage a half hour later, on our way to Waterloo Station. Now that we were away from the puzzling presence of Farish, Holmes was treating this case with his usual excited manner and indestructible energy. The first thing he had done after leaving our rooms was to hail a taxi and send a telegram. He was gone a good 20 minutes sending that telegram, and he came back chuckling at some inexplicable joke that he didn't even try to explain. Now, though, we were back in the carriage and he broke his thoughtful silence by unexpectedly asking me:

"What did you notice about how our client was dressed?" I looked up, surprised, and thought back to Mr Farish's clothes.

"He was wearing his rail guard uniform." I replied, wondering what the dress of our client had to do with a bomb at Waterloo Station.

"Yes indeed." Mused Holmes. "Did you notice anything else?" I tried to picture Mr Farish in my mind's eye: short, slender figure, wispy beard, spectacles and all.

"His trousers were black, held up with a…_ brown_ belt and had been re-hemmed once." I said, proud that I had remembered such a detail. Holmes didn't look impressed.

"They had been re-hemmed _twice_. And his shoes had also been resoled. His handkerchief was patched, as were his shirt and waistcoat, for that matter, and as far as I can tell, the most expensive item in his possession was that tin of lip balm he used. What does that tell you about the wealth of our client, Watson?" he reminded me of a university lecturer in that moment, but he was simply thinking aloud and not mocking my considerably smaller intellect.

"That Mr Farish is quite a poor man." I replied and Holmes nodded his agreement.

"I happen to know that a rail guard at Waterloo is issued with one set of uniform which consists of jacket, trousers, shirt, shoes and tie. Any replacements or extras must come out of the worker's own pocket. Judging by the lengths Mr Farish had taken to repair his uniform, I think that it is safe to say that he was wearing the only set he owned." I smiled, for the logic was sound.

"But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything, Watson, absolutely everything." Holmes said cryptically, then hurled some money at the driver and bounded out of the taxi, me following closely. We had arrived at Waterloo.


	5. Chapter 5

Waterloo Station is one of my favourite destinations in London. Magnificent and elderly, it is a glowing testament to the wonders of modern transportation – the miracles and results of our own science and creativity. Its vaulted ceilings and draughty expanses reek of splendour. No other structure in London can quite compete with the grandeur and radiance of Waterloo – the collision point of the rich and the poor, the one place in our 19th century world where all people are equal, united in the act of travelling across the city and our glowing, rail spanned country. Holmes and I jostled through the heaving crowds of commuters, ever careful to keep our hands by our sides and one eye open. Pickpockets always lurked where there was an abundance of people and I vastly preferred keeping a low profile over losing my purse to a shadowy puppet of crime. For his part, Holmes was his usual confident self, and I found his tall, lithe figure an easy beacon to follow in the sea of faces.

We finally staggered out of the bustling herd of rail-users and loitered in a secluded area until we caught our breath. I noticed that this section of the station had a somewhat darker atmosphere compared to the usual cheerful ambiance of the commuter crowd, and that broken glass crunched beneath our feet – shattered diamonds in the dim illumination. Simple police cones lay scattered, cordoning off the area, and I realised that we were perched on the very brink of the crime scene we had come to examine. Squinting into the gloom (the crude electric lights overhead had been shattered by the force of the explosion) I saw the shredded, grotesquely ravaged remains of the bookshop. Disembowelled books lay in ragged fragments across the floor and the three walls that had been left standing by the blast were charred and crumbling, exactly as described by Mr Farish. The sight made the breath catch in my throat.

Holmes stood studying the crime scene for a good ten minutes, taking in every obscure detail and precise measurement from afar, puffing at the pipe between his lips. We were standing directly underneath a sign that read, "This area is off limits to the public," yet Holmes was totally calm about the illegal trespassing in direct view of the police officers at the scene. I had learnt long ago that my friend rarely paid heed to laws or regulations. I had found this element of my friend's personality the most puzzling to understand. He laboured to fight the villains of this world, and endeavoured to enforce the law - he had often described his life as "an age long battle against crime," - yet he himself broke the law whenever he felt the need to do so. On _seventeen_ separate occasions, Holmes and I had broken into a private home or office, just because it had been necessary for an investigation. He could move silently and swiftly, crack safe combinations within minutes and his deft fingers could steal wallets and purses with more stealth and accuracy than the average pickpocket. It didn't bother me in the slightest – I enjoy the thrill of adventure when it boils in one's veins – but I doubted that any official figure would approve of the illegal antics of my friend: the amateur consulting detective, the bravest, cleverest, most conceited man I knew. Holmes suddenly snapped his fingers in the air, making such a loud _crack_ that he succeeded in ripping me from my thoughts and scattering a menacing gang of pigeons at the same time. He turned his brilliant eyes on me, and I abandoned my deliberation.

"Ah, Watson," said he, with an invigorated smile, "this case is most definitely an interesting one, but is perhaps a smudge darker than we first anticipated." I accepted his words with a tingle of dread, for whenever Holmes described a case as "dark" or "interesting" matters were often a lot more dangerous than they seemed.

"How do you mean?" I asked. Holmes looked away regretfully, as though he was about to deliver some unpleasant news; but despite his rather mournful expression, his face still glowed with excitement at the opportunity to stretch his mental powers.

"I fear that there is cold blooded murder, amongst other crimes, at the heart of this little conundrum." He said gravely, but then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and whistled cheerfully. "Well, we cannot fret about what is yet to occur. And for all we know, I might be able to prevent it. Come, let's go talk with the charming and amusingly slow witted officers of the law. I bet that they have absolutely NO idea why the bomb was set off." He winked, turned and paced towards the crime scene, the collar of his coal coloured coat turned up against a non-existent wind and his scarf billowing out behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

"There has been a murder." The shocking words were delivered coldly, and came from the lips of Sergeant Donovan, the young police woman who was the heading the investigation. Holmes, Donovan, grizzled Detective Lestrade and I were all standing around a table near the remains of the book shop. Tension was thick in the air. Holmes and Donovan faced each other stiffly; the latter irritated and the former seemingly amused by the whole affair.

"Who has been murdered?" asked Holmes, to get the conversation flowing once more. The silence had been a few beats short of awkward, and I was grateful for his questioning tone. When Holmes started interrogating someone, the words were often slow to abate. Donovan snorted.

"As if you don't know!" her laugh was brittle. "You have to be the nosiest busybody in all of London, _Mr _Holmes, and I'd wager you knew about the killing before we did!" Holmes took these briskly spoken words in his stride.

"On the contrary, my _dear_ madam, this is the first I have heard of it. However, I have been able to wrest a few details from various sources and from my own intuition and observations. I take it the victim was middle aged, tall, single, grey haired, and went by the name of Mr Baxter? Smoked Indian cigars and had a strong aversion to knives…which is ironic really, as he was stabbed to death in his own home."

The whole party, myself included, stared at him in slack jawed, open amazement. A heartbeat of utter silence, then Donovan was suddenly right next to Holmes, grabbing his coat with clutching fingers. Her face, pale and etched with emotion, gazed up at him. Her expression was one of shock mixed with simmering, consuming fury.

"How. Could. You. _Possibly._ Know. That?" she snarled. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lestrade shaking his head in astonishment – the surprise left him looking wan and withdrawn. I found myself wondering how Holmes could pull off such an outstanding magic trick – I had spent the whole day by his side, I knew all the facts he did, I had even attempted to apply some of his methods myself, and when he had been analysing the crime scene I had quietly been doing the same. Yet he had managed to surprise us all once again. He truly was a member of the supernatural. Holmes smiled sheepishly at us, pleasantly surprised by our reactions and apparent wonder.

"It was simple to see, really. Our world is full of thousands of tiny clues. Alone, they are worthless, but when you _combine_ the clues, the pattern is revealed and the results are spectacular. I like to think of life as a complex mosaic-"

"Save us the lecture!" Sergeant Donovan snapped, and Holmes raised his eye brows in mock indignation. She glowered at him from beneath a web of dark lashes, then growled: "Just tell us how you found out this information. A man is dead, we have no idea as to the motive or the culprit, and _you_ waltz in here and start reeling off answers! Explain yourself!" Holmes patted her arm to calm the glowering police woman, and she glared at him before sidling away.

"All I did was observe. Yesterday, a bomb was placed at this exact location, and this bookshop was the only structure that was harmed. This event happened over 24 hours ago, and yet the place is _still_ swarming with police officers – not just the head investigator, but her second as well. That was enough to tell me that something_ else_ had happened, a further development in this matter, something important enough to warrant the interest of two senior members of the police force. Also, I see Officer Anderson lurking behind you." Holmes paused to wave cheerily at the scowling, dark haired man. "He is a specialist in recording the intricate details of a crime scene, if I remember correctly, and is often called in to deal with murders. So, a murder. The plot thickens. Who's murder? Well, we know that Mr Baxter's shop had been destroyed. It is a logical step to assume that he is the victim in this second, related crime. As to the other details that I revealed, they are easy to find out."

When Holmes saw our blank expressions, he rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation.

"I'm always shocked by how intelligent people such as yourselves can be so totally _blind_." Holmes muttered, but then his voice regained its patient, explaining tone once more. "I said that Mr Baxter is tall, middle aged, grey haired and single. I found his height by looking at his adjustable office chair – it was positioned at a low setting, meaning that Mr Baxter had to be quite above average height to sit comfortably on such a low chair, follow? As to middle aged - how old is the man who is typically father to a teenage daughter?" He pointed to a portrait of a young girl perched on the desk in the bookshop's office, only just visible from where we were standing. The frame had been engraved with the words: "To daddy with love." As we all stared at the picture, Holmes continued briskly.

"As to single, perhaps I should amend it to _divorced_. Divorced, and not widowed. If he was a widower, than a picture of his late wife would most certainly be alongside his daughter. The same would be true if he was married or in a relationship, but no picture, so no romantic attachments. I knew he was grey haired by once again returning to his office chair. Office chairs are truly remarkable for discovering life's tiny details… there are several grey hairs on the back of it, on the floor and by the sink over in the corner. See, all simple observations. I said he smoked Indian cigars, and I discovered that one by taking a quiet study of his ashtray. He also uses matches and not a lighter, if anybody is interested." Holmes stopped and looked from face to face. "Any more questions, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked politely. Lestrade hesitantly nodded.

"The knives. You said he had a strong aversion to knives and that he had been stabbed. How…?" he trailed off: the enormity of his astonishment was too great.

"Excellent Lestrade! Yes, the knives. Well, I found out, quite by accident, that Baxter was terrified of knives when I was examining the bookshelves in his private office. He has a collection of books on all manner of weapons, arranged by topic and in alphabetical order. I looked through each section, and couldn't help but notice that there was no section on the subject of knives. Not a single book. I concluded that he had a phobia."

Lestrade sucked in his breath. "Remarkable! But how did you know he had been stabbed? You're absolutely right, of course, but it baffles me to think how you could have possibly known the cause of death without even seeing the body!" I awaited Holmes' answer with baited breath, for I was just as eager to know as Lestrade was. Even Donovan was forced to look up at Holmes by the power of her curiosity. Holmes paused for a moment, and I could tell by the mischievous look on his face that he did it on purpose. He knew how desperate we were for the answers, and he was enjoying the power of suspense that he held over us. Finally he spoke.

"Now that, my friends, is something that I would rather keep to myself - at least for the time being." He flashed us a brilliant smile, then held up a hand as if suddenly remembering something. "Oh yes, one more thing." Donovan sighed heavily.

"Go on."

"Why do you think a bomb went off?"

"I'm sure _you_ have plenty of ideas and explanations of your own."

"I do. I want to hear yours." Holmes smiled, his dominant personality moulding the conversation to suit him. Lestrade stepped in for the sullen Officer Donovan.

"We think that the bomb was set off to attack Mr Baxter." he said softly.

"Yes…" Holmes mused "And your theory _is_ backed up by the recent murder of said Mr Baxter…" His eyes widened, as though inspiration, an epiphany, a sudden realisation of great truth, had struck him. He stood there in rapt silence for ten seconds, thirty… then snapped out of it. "And who do you think is to blame for the bomb?" He asked sharply. Lestrade blinked.

"We have no leads. Other than Mr O'Friar, of course. He was the last person to see Baxter alive, but he has vanished off the face of the earth. We have warrants out for his arrest and posters with the usual information – report to Scotland Yard if you know the whereabouts of a tall man with a scarred face - but I doubt it will do any good."

"Facial scar, eh?" Mused Holmes. "What's it look like?"

"Our sources say it's like a mountain turned on its side." Answered Lestrade quickly. He was smiling openly – obviously pleased to know more than the apparently omniscient Holmes. Holmes accepted the new information silently, then said:

"Thank you. Thank you very much. Lestrade. Donovan." He nodded to each in turn. "I appreciate your input." I too mumbled my thanks, and then Holmes was whirling away, ploughing back through the broiling, churning commuter crowds and leaving me to scurry in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

Thursday morning dawned bright and sticky; a welcome change from the constant downpour - but the beating sun was a curse on London City. The streets were filthy, rubbish left to rot on every corner, rain soaked debris mixed with mud steaming in the drains and sweat oozing off every human being, regardless of their social class. I was more accustomed to the hot weather than I was to the cold, but this dastardly British summer was a nightmare. One minute there was oily rain streaking from the sky, accompanied by thunder and icy sheets of hail, the next a humid heat wave had the city in a death grip. The feral elements were toying with us, and I was far from amused. Holmes was also irritated. I could tell from the set of his jaw, the flash of his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. I could see his mood reflected in his every action and every growled word – although words were becoming less and less frequent as he drew back deep into the seclusion of his mind. I knew what was vexing him and it wasn't the weather. Although Holmes had numerous clients and on-going cases throughout the city, I could tell that this explosion and murder at Waterloo Station was bothering him. He would sit up late each night, inhaling the smoky tobacco from his wood pipe and staring blankly into space, wrapped in silent thought that isolated and engulfed his hunched figure. He was waiting for something, but I had no idea what. And then on Thursday night, in the middle of our chess rematch, a visitor came.

He was a tall man, our visitor. Dressed in a dark suit and tails, with his hair gleaming in a tangled mess and his palms damp with sweat (either from his brisk walk in the sticky evening haze, or from nerves) he reminded me of a retired accountant. He introduced himself as "Doctor Dominick Cloaker. Profession? I am a census scribe, sir." And the moment after the words had tumbled from his mouth, he promptly fainted into an armchair. Holmes and I exchanged a bewildered, bordering on bemused glance, then we both hurried off in different directions: me to fetch water and brandy for our guest, and Holmes to grab his homemade encyclopaedia off its shelf. The encyclopaedia was one of his most prized possessions. It detailed every case he had ever participated in, and had a reference to almost every person in and around London, as well as many other interesting characters from all over the country. He wasted no time in flicking though its yellowed pages in a frenzied hunt for a page on Dominick Cloaker. I heard a hum of satisfaction as he found it, followed by a short period of silence, the slamming of the book and then Holmes re-entering the room just as the census scribe came to.

Cloaker sat up on his chair, grinned sheepishly at us, then ran his hands repeatedly through the shock of coffee coloured fuzz on his scalp.

"Awfully sorry to have blacked out on you like that." He said, breathing deeply and accepting my proffered beaker with a trembling hand. I detected a hint of Cockney in his rich acent. "I'm not usually a fainting type of bloke, but I've… I've been under a lot of stress recently. My job, my wife-" he broke off with a wretched, choked sob, so choked and wretched it made both Holmes and I feel compelled to comfort him. Cloaker's dancing fingers shooed us away before we could get close, and he clumsily blew his nose on an embroidered handkerchief.

"Calm down, sir." Holmes said uneasily. He himself was not an overly-emotional man, and this open display of grief was a bit bewildering for him. Our guest sniffled loudly.

"Start from the beginning and tell us the reason for your visit, if you would be so kind." I said gently, feeling like it was time to take over from the sometimes tactless Holmes. Cloaker nodded thickly and drew out a crumpled piece of paper from an inside pocket.

"This – this is the advert that brought me here. I – I saw it in the paper." He informed us and Holmes nodded enthusiastically.

"Finally! An answer to my advertisement. We may be getting somewhere in this case yet, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, some of his old, bubbling energy beginning to return. "Be a sport and read it aloud, will you, Mr Cloaker?" This question earned Holmes a quizzical glance.

"But if you w-wrote it, then why do you n-need me to read it to you?" Cloaker asked hesitantly.

"Excellent point, good sir. But proceed anyway!" came the brisk demands of Holmes and Cloaker shot me a puzzled glance before examining the paper in his hand. Here is what it said:

_PLEASE attend to 221B Baker Street if you can answer YES to ALL of the following QUESTIONS:_

_Were you at Waterloo Station on Monday 6__th__ of August? (Yes or no?)_

_Were you there between the hours of 8pm and 9pm? (Go on, yes or no?)_

_ Did you hear an explosion? (If you are thinking "what a vague and stupid question", then you are an IDIOT. Trust me; if you heard the explosion, you HEARD the explosion, and you will jolly well know what I am talking about) Please continue:_

_Did you LOSE any possessions on Monday 6__th__ of August? Was anything STOLEN?!I repeat, STOLEN?_

_Thank you for your TIME._

Cloaker put down the paper and cleared his throat.

"That advertisement was-"

"The work of a genius-" I interrupted loudly,

"Completely stupid."

Cloaker and I stared at each other.

"What-"

"Pardon?"

We ogled at each other once more, and then I started speaking before we could say anything else in unison.

"What a brilliant advertisement!" I exclaimed. "Direct, to the point, engaging. It also had enough detail so that it could only apply to a very small amount of people-" I said.

"-it's idiocy." Cloaker snapped, shaking his head. "If I hadn't been able to answer YES to ALL those QUESTIONS then I would have dismissed the whole thing as a joke. As it happened, I fit the exact criteria of the advert, which I thought was a creepy coincidence so, I came here to solve the mystery." He said, sentence sounding halting due to the breaths that punctuated it. I opened my mouth to leap to the defence of my friend's penmanship skills, but Holmes held up his hands.

"Stop squabbling like mating pigeons." He said wryly, amusement flickering in his eyes. Both Cloaker and I turned to face him.

"Why were there so many words in capital letters?" Cloaker asked icily, sinking back into his armchair. I sat down too – sometime during my heated discussion with Cloaker I must have stood up without even noticing.

"A simple enough reason." Holmes intoned, casually examining his fingernails.

"And the reason was…?" Cloaker probed, after seconds in which the answer was not forthcoming.

"Ah. Yes!" Holmes smiled. "Sorry, I got a bit distracted reading the receipt in your top pocket. Why are you not wearing the new shoes you bought yesterday? Wait – don't answer that. I bet they were brown and didn't go well with your suit." He grinned impishly as Cloaker ripped the receipt from his pocket and crushed it into a ball. That ball of paper still sits in our ash tray.

"The reason. Please. Mr Holmes." Cloaker breathed. Holmes made a "well, alright then, if you really want to hear the story then hear it but it's not MY fault if you don't like what you hear" face, which is a pretty hard face to make, before saying impatiently:

"I spent a shilling telegramming the Times with my advertisement - you may remember that Watson, I sent a telegram just before we went to Waterloo on Monday – and then I paid another shilling to actually place the advert in the paper. Seeing that I had spent all these shillings, I didn't see the harm in spending another, so I bought an advert package that gave me ten words I could capitalise. I thought it would give the advert an extra _punch_, you know? Well, ten words in bright capital letters does make quite the impact, but unfortunately I had to capitalise a few random words so that I wouldn't waste my shilling. Satisfied?"

Cloaker squinted at my friend.

"So it wasn't some impossibly clever pattern of capitalised words which created a brainwashing effect that resulted in me being here?"

"No." said Holmes simply, and offered Cloaker a biscuit.


	8. Chapter 8

Two and a half hours later and we were still sitting in the parlour. Mrs Hudson had done the rounds of tea, scones and cigarettes numerous times and the room was pleasantly smoky. Tendrils of tobacco shrouded everything, made the room seem smaller and choked the lights. It was a relaxing effect and we were all seated in our armchairs, clad in faded slippers and supporting drooping eyes.

"Fascinating." Holmes breathed, as Mr Cloaker finished his story. Though my friend's face was bathed in half-light and his eyes glazed by a shadow's brush, the vibrant, characteristic energy was still present. "An excellent tale, and excellently told, but I don't suppose you could clarify a few points?" Cloaker nodded languidly, eyes fixed on a bottle of amber coloured liquor on the mantelpiece.

"Ask away."

"Oh I will." Holmes smiled, and launched into a cross examination worthy of any lawyer.

"So you were on the train home from Manchester? The 8:43?" Cloaker nodded his agreement, causing Holmes to rub his hands together in a sudden burst of excitement. "One of my other clients, Mr Farish, mentioned that the bomb at Waterloo Station detonated at 8:40 pm." He continued. "That coincides with the arrival of your train! You said you felt a massive explosion?"

"I was thrown out of my chair. Nearly knocked out the old lady sitting opposite." Cloaker chuckled. Holmes acknowledged the comment and ploughed on.

"So there was panic inside the carriage and then you said that the train doors… opened?"

"Yes."

"And a man came in, holding a gun?"

"I was terrified."

"He went straight up to _you _and asked for your briefcase?"

"Exactly."

"Sorry, remind me. What was in your briefcase?" Cloaker had gone very pale, and it was apparent that this was a raw subject for him.

"The briefcase _used_ to hold papers. Original census documents from Domesday Book itself, which had been treated and restored in Manchester. I had been entrusted with taking the newly treated documents back to the museum archives. Huge honour, huge responsibility. And I go and lose them! My whole job is on the line, my wife is furious…" his voice started to gain a shaky quality and I hurriedly fetched him a drop of that amber liquor. Holmes looked a little perplexed by the knowledge.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. What is it about this document that is so valuable?" Cloaker snorted with contempt.

"I'm shocked you didn't know, a worldly man such as yourself." He said brusquely and not, I might mention, without a lick of sarcasm. Holmes bristled, but was ignored. "The document is of huge historic significance. Sheep skin parchment of the highest quality, with black and red ink! It has been part of British heritage and culture for near 1000 years, and it has seen monarchs rise and generations die. It is a portal into a different age, a tool used to part the mists of time and see who breathed in the 1086, under the rule of William the Conqueror. An original census document from the Domesday Book can reach hundreds of thousands at auction. This price could potentially be double, as the Domesday Book is deemed too fragile for public exhibition. There are those who would do anything to get their hands on a priceless document such as this. And you dare to ask why the document is _valuable_…" From the soft folds of my armchair, I whistled at the exorbitant price. £100,000, potentially more, for a piece of raggedy paper with the addresses of long dead peasants? Ridiculous.

"And you say these valuable papers were _stolen_?" Holmes asked softly, and Cloaker nodded. He buried his head in his hands, seemingly in despair at the horror of the lost census. Holmes didn't seem to notice.

"Ah, everything is coming together!" He cried jubilantly, leaping to his feet with a rare show of his immense athletic ability. "I had this case pretty much figured out, but I was missing a motive. Now we have valuable papers worth hundreds of thousands thrown into the mix! Watson – a criminal will soon be brought to justice!" I could not help but share his excitement. This case had been bothering me, like an itch in the back of my mind, and I was awaiting its conclusion with baited breath.


	9. Chapter 9

The day after Doctor Dominick Cloaker, the distraught census scribe, had left our humble apartment I got my coat and attempted to slip out. Holmes was having none of it.

"What are you doing? It's nearly three o clock in the morning." His voice preceded his supple figure and I nearly jumped out of my skin as he rounded the corner ahead of me.

"What are _you_ doing?" I hissed as he turned his brilliant smile on me, "What's so funny?" my friend was obviously struggling to restrain a fit of mirth. "Holmes…" I growled and he roared with laughter at my warning tone.

"Watson!" He chuckled, gasping for breath. "Your face! You thought you were being _so_ sneaky, putting on your shoes _outside_ the door and grabbing your coat with all the stealth of an elephant! And then you creep out thinking that I'm none the wiser and BOOM I'm right around the corner and you have a _heart_ attack!" He paused as merriment consumed him. I stared at him, struggling to keep a straight face myself as I saw the funny side of this situation. I had truly thought that Holmes had been fast asleep on the sofa when I had left 221B and my startled expression must have been comical to behold. He leant against the brick wall by my side, trying to stop the sudden, uncontrollable outbursts of snickering and soon we were both laughing and panting for breath.

"What were you doing at this time of night?" I asked my friend but he blanked the question and ducked his head towards me. The wind ruffled his dark curls as he sniffed the folds of my jacket like a blood hound. I stared at him. "What on earth…?" Holmes nodded his head contentedly, and hoisted himself up so that he was sitting on the wall.

"Basil and lime, Watson. A lovely fragrance but do be warned that it can stain white fabrics if used over a long period of time."

"What?" I hoped I didn't sound as flabbergasted as I felt.

"Your cologne, man!" Holmes tutted cantankerously. "It's basil and lime scented. Must have cost you a pretty penny, and this is the first time you have used it since you bought it three weeks ago. And what happened three weeks ago? The beautiful and so called _single _Miss Violet Groening moved into the flat across the street. I have seen the two of you talking a lot recently-"

"I was welcoming her to the neighbourhood!" I snapped, spooked by the knowledge Holmes possessed. He smiled at me and clapped me on the back.

"I congratulate you, Watson. Miss Violet is intelligent and independent and she obviously likes you. How long have you been together?" he enquired casually. I sighed. Holmes and his abilities were uncanny: he seemed to know every detail of my private life without me uttering a single word.

"Two weeks." I muttered and Holmes chuckled.

"Ah, Watson, such a… player." His lips twisted over the euphemism, like it was a suit he was trying on for size. It didn't seem to fit. The effort made me smile. "You seem happy with this arrangement and I'm sorry that I have to be the one to break the news to you." He sighed enigmatically and I turned to stare at him.

"What do you mean?" Somehow I knew that I wasn't going to like whatever Holmes had to say. He gave me a look laced with sympathy and I rolled my eyes. "Spit it out, man!"

"Watson, I'm afraid Miss Violet Groening has told you a few untruths. Her real name is _Mrs _Violet Sington and she is a married woman with a husband living in America." He said mournfully, then broke into a white toothed grin. "Now that that's over and done with, would you like to come with me and make an arrest?"

"But…_married!"_ I spluttered. "You can't be serious!" Holmes placed a hand on my shoulder and started guiding me down the street.

"Oh I assure you I'm perfectly serious. Such a shame… Oh well. Come along Watson, there is work to be done!"

"B-b-b-but…" I trailed off, realising that Holmes was probably telling the truth. I swore explosively, waved my hands wildly in the air, took a deep breath and sighed loudly. Holmes shot me a sideways glance.

"You coming?" I hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then made up my mind.

"Why not?" I said in way of agreement, stifling a yawn with difficulty. "What are you doing up, anyway?" I asked. "I thought that you were asleep when I popped out to see Violet." Holmes smiled impishly.

"I was never actually asleep, Watson." His long legs propelled us forwards at a brisk pace. "I spent most of the night talking to Brian Lamb, as a matter of fact."

"But that can't be!" I protested. "You never left the flat!"

"I was gone several hours whilst you were reading in the parlour." He tutted. "Speaking of the parlour, we still need to finish that chess game… Anyway, I came back just in time to see you preparing to sneak out, so I feigned sleep on the sofa, then sprung out the window in time to meet you around the corner."

"Oh." I said Typical Holmes. His antics didn't surprise me, so I scanned my memory for Brian Lamb. "Brian Lamb… wasn't he the train guard that Mr Farish said was acting suspiciously? He must have planted the bomb! He's the culprit!" Holmes shot me a sidelong glance before deftly lighting his pipe.

"I questioned him and he had some very interesting things to say."

"So are we off to arrest him now, then?" I asked excitedly. Holmes seemed puzzled by the question.

"God no!" he cried. "When a man tells you of a person _he_ saw acting suspiciously, it is 9 times out of 10 a frame up. I visited Brian Lamb anyway, but I was pretty sure that Mr Farish twisted his version of events slightly so as to put us on Lamb's tail. It was nothing more than a red herring – a wild goose chase."

"But why?" I asked, perplexed. I had spent the past few days thinking that the most likely culprit in this case was Brian Lamb and now that Holmes had dismissed the idea I felt a little put out.

"Oh, it could be one of a thousand reasons." Holmes said airily, his hands forming in a flippant gesture. "Anything from a personal grudge against Mr Lamb, to a mistaken identity."

"Oh. Oh, ok. So who are we going to arrest, then?"

"The person that Lestrade has been chasing, and the Scotland Yard's prime suspect. Mr O'Friar, the station master who disappeared after he was last seen at Mr Baxter's shop." Holmes straightened the lapels of his coat briskly as he strode through the night.  
"Yes, I remember. Lestrade is convinced that he is the one responsible, and Mr Farish did say that he was the last person to see Mr Baxter alive. But if he disappeared, how are we going to arrest him? How did you find his location?" Holmes tapped a slender finger to his nose, the universal symbol for "that's for me to know and you to find out."

"I have my methods." Holmes said after a moment of silence – though the nose tap was sufficient enough. I sighed heavily and quickened my pace.

"I bet you do."


	10. Chapter 10

Mr O'Friar, the missing stationmaster, lived on the fifth floor of a block of flats over Chalk Farm – a decrepit tower with a view of snaking train tracks and a rusted fire escape creeping up one side. The man lived alone. No friends, no family, no romantic interests, just his good self and a few single celled organisms he liked to grow in agar jelly. The bacteria cluttered his various work tops and book shelves in their petri dish prisons, and under the lamplight many seemed to pulsate with a primordial glow. I could barely keep my eyes off the crazy things. I was crouched on a rickety fire escape outside the stationmaster's parlour window, with my forehead pressed against the glass and my breath frothing in the frigid air. I could imagine that I looked pretty strange – kneeling outside an old man's home and staring silently in on his private life like some sort of perverted ghost, but Holmes had instructed me to stay put and keep an eye on things. He had then padded down the length of the fire escape with his footsteps quick and quiet, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving me alone in the dark. I didn't mind. I knew that my job was intrinsic to the success of our task – there was no way Mr O'Friar could escape with me watching his movements like a hawk. And with me guarding all exits and controlling the situation, Holmes was free to pop in and make the arrest. I shifted my position slightly, trying to ignore the cold that was soaking into my bones. It occurred to me that Holmes was in no way qualified to make an arrest. He was a consulting detective, one who worked closely with the police but who was not actually affiliated with them. In the eyes of the law, this arrest would most likely be seen as a kidnapping. I smiled grimly at that, but didn't allow myself to worry too much about it. Holmes could be an intimidating man when he wanted to be, and I had no doubt that he could talk his way out of any situation. And he had contacts in high places, including in the heart of Scotland Yard.

A strange sound made my muscles tense and my ears swivel. It was a creak, like floorboards shifting or stairs sighing. A creak like that could only mean one thing: Mr O'Friar was awake. I listened intently, breath faltering as I waited for another noise. My eyes flickered, panning the kitchen in front of me for signs of movement. Nothing. The place was dead. It had been for the past hour and a half I had been sat here, keeping an eye on the most boring parlour in England. Slowly, carefully, I relaxed. My vigil was long and lonely, and in the absence of my pipe and a flask of hot soup, I was getting paranoid. My heart rate settled back into a gentle rhythm and I rested my forehead against the window pane, gazing dreamily at the London skyline reflected in the glass. If it wasn't so damned cold I could very easily nod off. _CREAK_. I sat up with a start. That noise again! It cracked the silence like a gunshot. Where did it come from? I looked around, but couldn't see anything amiss – _creak_. I stood up. I couldn't help it. The sound made me feel helpless, vulnerable and ridiculous all at the same time. It gave me the distinctive, sinking feeling that I had turned from the predator into the prey. I did a smooth 360 but that just made me feel like an idiot. There was nobody here. I was alone on a balcony, twitching at tiny sounds. These creaks meant nothing. It was probably just a pigeon foraging in the gutter. I spun this theory in my mind, forcing myself to accept it. _It was just a pigeon_. I sat back down. In my heart I knew it wasn't true, but I pushed down the icy fingers of dread and focused on controlling my breathing. _Creak._ I jumped at the sound but didn't turn around. I was going to ignore it. _Creak!_ I ground my teeth. Ignore. _Creak. Creak. Creak._ It was incessant! Like a baby squealing in the background. _Creak. Creak. CREAK!_ I stared at the window, jaw set. I was _ignoring_ here.

"Hey! You!" I nearly jumped out of my skin. Arms flailing, I leapt to my feet and whirled, trying to find the owner of the voice. Nobody. I was still alone on an empty balcony. Only now I knew I was being watched, hunted, tracked. How had this happened? I was meant to be keeping an eye on Mr O'Friar. Not the other way around. If it even _was_ Mr O'Friar. I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

"Hello?" I called. "Mr O'Friar? Is that you?" Nothing but silence in reply. Perhaps the person had gone away – and good riddance too. I strode around the balcony, searching. "Who are you?" I asked the darkness.

"Your mum." The voice came quick and loud. I spun in its direction, eyes sparking.

"Funny." I growled. "Very funny."

"That's what your mum said."

"Holmes? Is that you?" I yelled, ignoring the disembodied sniggering. Holmes was a master of disguises; he could sound like anyone he wanted. He was probably messing with me. I pushed down the creeping fingers of doubt, ignoring the facts that crude, lewd humour was not Holmes' style and that he wouldn't do this to me.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." The voice whispered into the night. Low and menacing. I froze.

"You're lying."

"I killed him."

"No." I snarled. "No. You're _lying_." I took steadying breaths, refusing to let this guy needle me. The whole situation was absurd. I was Doctor John Watson of 221B Baker Street and I was NOT going to be intimidated by some nutcase hiding in the dark. Once I had calmed down, I addressed the shadows again.

"Who are you?"

The voice gave a wheezy chuckle. "The Count of Monte Cristo."

I sighed. I was dealing with a lunatic.

"I'm going to ask you one more time." I said voice dangerously quiet. At least, I hoped it was dangerously quiet. To the invisible villain, it probably just sounded quiet. "Who are you? Really?" There was a moment of silence, a series of creaks, and then the voice returned, stronger than ever.

"Alright. I'll tell you." The stranger sounded subdued. "I'm the Queen of England." I rolled my eyes in frustration. This coming from a predominantly _male_ voice. I opened my mouth to say something that was both scathing and patriotic, something along the lines of, "How dare you impersonate her Majesty!" or "Stop being such an idiot, you… idiot!" but then decided better of it. I wouldn't sink to his level. So instead of snapping something that would no doubt sound great in my head but not so great in reality, I turned on my heel and started to stalk down the fire escape. I made it about 2 steps before the stranger popped up in front of me.

"Good evening, _sir_."

"Whoa!" I shouted, stumbling backwards. The tall greasy man had appeared from nowhere and I did _not_ like the way he was looking at me. He was also so close I could smell his garlic breath and his dandruff infected hair was, quite frankly, nauseating. I took an instinctive step away from his leering expression, wondering if I should barge past him and leg it down the fire escape. This was definitely the man who had been insulting me from the shadows for the past five minutes, the man whose creaking footsteps had filled me with dread. He looked like a nutter. He smelt like a nutter. He – that was when I noticed the thin scar tracing down the man's skull, shaped like Mount Everest turned on its side. Holmes had told me about that scar. It belonged to one man and one man only: Mr O'Friar. I tried to swallow my anger. The slimy loon who had been stalking me, pressing at my vulnerable points, trying to get under my skin, was none other than Mr O'Friar, the man I had been told to watch. The man we were going to arrest.


	11. Chapter 11

"How do you do?" the stationmaster smirked. "Having fun on my balcony? It looked like fun. Sitting there for an hour. All alone." He was coming closer. Small, light steps that quickly covered the distance between us. In a split second, we were face to face, and that was not a position I particularly wanted to be in. Mr O'Friar looked _mad_. Seething mad, like he was going to bash my face in any minute now. "What are you doing here?" he growled in my ear. "Are you going to arrest me?" His words carried a hard, derisive glint. This was a man who obviously viewed himself as untouchable, immortal, 100% omnipotent. And he had trapped me on his balcony. Something glittered in his hand and I shuddered when I saw the knife gripped in his fingers. A switchblade. Deadly, long, thin. He was going to gut me! The crazy psychopath was going to _kill _me. I took deep breaths and tried to keep it cool. If I was going to die, I was going to die with dignity, so help me lord.

"You – you killed Mr Baxter. You bombed his shop!" My words fizzled away as Mr O'Friar brandished the knife before my eyes.

"Course I bombed his shop, fool! You have no idea what's really going on. No idea at all! You and that tall friend of yours, that god-damned-Sherlock-Holmes, you think you are _so_ clever, so much smarter than the rest of us, yeah, don't you? But you missed out on the big picture! The shop, the beef with Baxter, it's all just the beginning. We got something big planned, we got something that will make us richer than anyone in this damn city!" he took wild breaths, his rib cage puffing like a locomotive. "It's just too bad you won't live long enough to find out what is, eh? Such a shame, but I'm afraid that that's life. Not that _life_ is something you will be experiencing for much longer." He shot me an oily grin that made me want to hand him a toothbrush right then and there, and pressed me up against the wall. His knife rose to balance on my chin. I gulped. "Where is your friend, anyway? Where is the famous Sherlock bloody Holmes?" I shook my head. Guess he had been kidding with the killing Holmes comment.

"God knows." I mumbled. Bitter resentment swelled up within me. Where the hell was Holmes? He dragged me along with him in the middle of the night to arrest the station master, promised me it would be quick, easy, satisfying. I believed him. But then he left me to camp outside a flat, alone for hours on end. And when Mr O'Friar finally showed his smarmy face, Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Even when I'm backed up against a wall with a knife at my throat. Even when I'm about to die. I growled a string of curses under my breath and lashed out, kicking, punching, shouting. But Mr O'Friar doesn't yield. He looks at me contemptuously, then cracks my head against the brickwork with the flat of his palm. The world swims sickeningly and I see stars. My head throbs and I think I must have blacked out for a few seconds because the next thing I know I'm back where I started, pressed against the wall, all the fight crushed out of me. It was hard to believe, but Mr O'Friar was remarkably strong. I sighed through the dull pain in my skull. This was so embarrassing. The guy was like, a million and I couldn't over power him. He was a lunatic, but he was a bloody _strong_ lunatic. The knife rose to eye level. I braced myself for death.

But death didn't seem to be in too much of a hurry, and as the seconds dribbled by I breathed deeply. I was still alive. Mr O'Friar was poised in front of me, his thirsty knife ready, but instead of finishing me off, he seemed to be lost deep in thought.

"Like Sherlock Holmes could defeat me anyway." He muttered. "He's not even a policeman! He doesn't even care enough to come and rescue you!" I shrugged my shoulders in response, too tired to put up much of a fight in my friends defence. Holmes had abandoned me. What was the point of protecting his honour? The world swirled in and out of focus. That was some knock, and it was a knock I took because I followed Holmes' instructions. I closed my eyes. This was it. There was no hope now. Holmes had done a runner and I was going to die for making the mistake to come with him.

"You! Step AWAY from my friend. I assure you that I am in a very bad mood and that it would NOT be wise for you to waste any time." The voice boomed out from somewhere behind Mr O'Friar. It was strong, deep, powerful. It carried the type of elemental fury that one would expect to find at the heart of an Atlantic thunderstorm.

Mr O'Friar whirled around with a feral snarl. "Who the hell are you-" his face paled. There, standing behind him in all his 6 foot glory, dark faced and practically trembling with rage, was Sherlock Holmes. And standing behind him, looking equally as murderous, was a policeman.

There was a moment of total shock, then Mr O'Friar burst out with an explosive fit of laughter.

"Speak of the devil!" He chuckled. "It's the almighty Holmes. And look, he brought a policeman!"

"Holmes!" I cried. He had come back for me. Despite all the odds he had returned to rescue me. I suddenly felt very small and treacherous. Holmes and I had been friends for 5 years. How had I ever doubted him?

"Sorry I took so long, Watson. I got a little… ah,_ waylaid_." Holmes said with a grimace. The policeman behind him, who I had all but forgotten about, interrupted sharply.

"Waylaid? Waylaid! I caught this man trying to burgle this here block of flats, I did. Caught him breaking and entering I did." Holmes turned towards the policeman with an exasperated sigh.

"As I have told you before, I was not breaking and entering! Lock picking is an entirely different art!" The policeman shrugged pompously.

"It's all the same to me, innit? I saw you snapping a lock I did. That's breaking and entering in my book."

"It's not breaking and entering if there is no _breaking_ involved!" Holmes growled. I got the sense that the pair of them had had this argument before. "And I wasn't trying to burgle the flat!" the policeman shook his head vigorously.

"I saw you, I did."

"_Must_ you say 'I did' at the end of every sentence?" Snapped Holmes. "Its most annoying, not to mention grammatically incorrect." The policeman opened his mouth to bicker something back, but I cut the pair off.

"Um, excuse me." I deadpanned. "Crazy guy with knife at my throat. Right here." the detective and the policeman turned to look at me and Mr O'Friar, (who had the expression of a trapped rabbit). "Better late than never." I grumbled. Holmes shrugged and gave me a pained smile.

"I am truly sorry, Watson. This gentleman is being most infuriating. He caught me trying to climb the fire escape and has been very…officious." Holmes shot the policeman a poisonous scowl that could melt a steel bar. I suddenly noticed that Holmes hands were cuffed together. Or so it seemed. I squinted closer and realised that the shackles hung at odd angles on his sinewy wrists. Holmes had cracked them without anybody noticing. I smiled slightly, my breathing starting to slow down from a wild _allegro_ to a more controlled _moderato_. Holmes had this bizarre situation under control. "Anyway, Watson, you have my deepest apologies." Holmes continued. "I had no idea things would get so heated, I didn't." He stopped abruptly. Blinked twice in surprise. "God help me. I've gone native!"

I chuckled in the buttery fog that was night in Chalk Farm. Holmes always made me feel better. The policeman squinted at me.

"Sorry, but who the hell are you? Do you live here?"

"This man is trying to kill me-"

"So is that a no? You don't live here." The policeman brushed down his uniform and gave us all a once over. "I don't know what's going on here, I don't, but I'm afraid that you'll all have to come down to the station with me." I could hardly believe my ears. Despite everything, Mr O'Friar still had the knife at my throat, and this police officer was having a go at _me_ for trespassing! I rolled my eyes. I could see now why Holmes was so frustrated.

"As I said before, this man is trying to MURDER me!" I said, totally exasperated. "And he is also responsible for setting off a bomb at Waterloo Station!"

"Quiet! We will get to the bottom of this later. For now the lot of you are under arrest, you are!" I shared a disbelieving glance with Holmes. He shook his head slightly. _Don't bother. It's not worth it._ As the policeman dragged Mr O'Friar away from me and shepherded us down to street level, the cruel teeth of irony bit into me. We had come to arrest Mr O'Friar and had ended up being arrested ourselves. If this wasn't a "face palm" moment, then I don't know what is.


	12. Chapter 12

After spending an eventful few hours down at the local police station, Holmes and I found ourselves back in the cosy interior of 221B. I could tell that Holmes was still annoyed about the whole arrest thing. We had been taken to the station and locked in a cell on Holmes' request. He had point blanked refused to talk to anybody other than his friend Lestrade, and as Lestrade had been unavailable for several hours, we were forced to hang around in the small room and listen to the policeman who had arrested us whine about Holmes to his superiors. Finally, though, Lestrade had arrived, and had explained to the officers that Holmes was "just doing his, er… job," and that "he can be a bit rude sometimes but he doesn't mean any offence or anything." About an hour later we had been released without being offered any breakfast, and had battled through the morning rush hour in order to pick up the milk. But now, at last, we were home. Back in 221B with its burgundy light fixtures and elderly wallpaper, greying tea bags and dusty books. The first thing that Holmes did was summon the law with the promise that the mystery had been concluded (though how Holmes had exactly "concluded" the mystery was beyond me). The events at Waterloo Station, the murder of Mr Baxter, the troubling tale of the census theft and the arrest of Mr O'Friar had left me more confused than ever. But if Holmes had claimed to untangle the threads and part the mists that veiled the truth, then I had no choice but to believe him. Holmes was a master cards player, one who applied the same principles of poker to life. He never revealed his hand until he was truly confident it was a winner.

So it was that I found myself in the parlour with half of Scotland Yard, a detective, a client and a criminal. We were an unlikely bunch and the strain was apparent – though we were all sitting in different positions around the room, all our poses were similar in that they were born from stress and nerves. Holmes was sitting in the depths of his chair, legs crossed stiffly, fingers drumming a steady, spindly beat. Smoke from his wood pipe billowed listlessly about his head, with as much enthusiasm as ghosts caught in a hurricane. The chess board with the still half-finished battle sat before him, ignored and neglected for now. Lestrade paced before the open fire, a lion in his cage. Anderson was perched on the windowsill like a coiled spring and Donovan, from her position by the staircase, had an expression like curdled milk. Her body was stretched elastic – she could snap at any moment - and her countenance was grim. It strived for casual but failed miserably, succeeding instead in radiating resentment and irritation. Her ire was out in full force and it made her a force to be reckoned with. Then there was Rupert Farish. He, too, looked edgy, a live wire in the confines of the parlour, constantly blinking and fidgeting and chewing the tail of his tie. He shot nervous glances at Mr O'Friar, the storm eyed station master who sat propped like a mop in the corner, his hands in chains. You play with fire and you get burnt. Which is why you should never, ever, get on the wrong side of Sherlock Holmes. Mr O'Friar had learnt that the hard way. The look on his face when Holmes revealed he had more authority than the average policeman was, quite frankly, priceless.

"We are here today to witness the conclusion of a mystery." Announced Sherlock Holmes. "A mystery that has plagued our thoughts for nearly a fortnight. A mystery that includes an act of terrorism, a murder and the theft of a document worth over £100 grand. In my mind, I have given this mystery a title." Holmes paused, one beat, two beats, then disclosed solemnly, "The Adventure of the Census Scribe." This statement was met with blank looks, until Lestrade hesitantly raised his hand.

"Sorry, but what on earth are you _talking_ about?" Anderson sniggered at the remark, but I gave him the evils from the safety of my armchair and the laughter died in his throat. Holmes sighed.

"I'm talking about the bomb at Waterloo station. You do remember that one, right?" Sarcasm leaked into his words, but did not taint them. Holmes was the only man I had met who could be point blank rude to someone, yet still not be considered insulting.

"Yes, I remember that." Lestrade said with a smile. The greying detective inspector was unperturbed. "But what document theft?" Holmes began to pace the room.

"I'll get to that later. But for now we will discuss the second crime I mentioned. Murder." Said Holmes, his voice soft as velvet, strong as iron. "As I'm sure you know, Mr Baxter was murdered last Wednesday. In his home. With a knife."

"Sounds like Cluedo, but yes, I remember. The murder links to the bomb – a criminal group is persecuting Mr Baxter." Lestrade said snippily. He scratched his face, once, twice, the impatience within him shining through.

"No!" Cried Holmes. "Lestrade, my friend, you're not _thinking_!"  
"What are you talking about? A group is persecuting Baxter! They have some sort of grievance with him, so they bombed his shop, then took his life…"

"Now _that_, my friends, is precisely what the criminal party _wants_ you to believe." Said Holmes quietly. He sank into an armchair. "I'm afraid that I am partly responsible for the death of Mr Baxter." He whispered.

"Knew it!" Anderson exclaimed.

"Shut up." Growled Lestrade. He nodded at Holmes. "Go on."

"I have spoken to the murderer." Said Holmes. "I have been in their presence. I remarked to him that if a criminal party really WAS persecuting Mr Baxter, then his house, or his life, would be claimed before that of his shop. I didn't know I was conversing with the murderer at the time, but I realise now, with hindsight, that I inadvertently told the criminal that Mr Baxter's death would make his persecution more believable."  
"What do you mean by more believable? It's real. Mr Baxter _is_ being persecuted." Donovan put in earnestly.

"I'll get to that in a minute." Holmes said with a nod.

"Wait just one second." It was Lestrade. "WHO is the murderer? For God's sake, tell us!" Holmes shook his head, dark curls bouncing.

"I will explain. But in a bit. Now is not the time. However, now _is_ the time to inform you good officers of the law about Doctor Dominick Cloaker, and the theft of the afore mentioned £100,000 document." Lestrade started to protest, but the words froze in his throat. Holmes was radiating dominance – it was obvious to everybody in the room that he held all the answers and would release them when he saw fit. You can't argue with a mountain.

"Dr Cloaker!" Holmes called, and the frail census scribe poked his head around the doorway.

"Ah." The word bubbled from his lips when he saw us all crowded in the parlour. He gulped once and shut the door behind him.

"Lock it." Commanded Holmes. "And bring the key to me." We watched quietly as Dr Cloaker complied, then went to stand by the window.

"Who is this guy?" Anderson demanded querulously. "Doctor… who?" Silence fell following the outburst. I broke it by chuckling loudly. For some reason, the question, doctor who, struck me as funny.

"This is Doctor Dominick Cloaker." Explained Holmes impatiently "He is a census scribe. On the day of the bomb at Waterloo, he was on a train, carrying with him a document worth thousands. It was an original census document from the Domesday Book itself that had been treated and restored in Manchester. Dr Cloaker here had been entrusted in taking the document back to its home in the museum archives. When the bomb went off, a masked man entered his carriage holding a gun. He then robbed Dr Cloaker here of the document."

"Great story." Anderson sneered. "What the hell has it got to do with anything?" Holmes shook his head vigorously.

"No, no you don't understand!"

"He _never_ understands." Lestrade chuckled. "Just tell us!"

"Ok, ok." Holmes settled everybody down. "Three crimes are involved in the Adventure of the Census Scribe. The bomb. The murder. The census theft." Holmes ticked them off on his fingers. "It is my belief that all three are connected."

"How?" I asked softly. The conclusion was near. I could feel it. Holmes sat down in his armchair and leaned in close.

"The bomb and the theft happened at exactly the same time. The bomb caused an unprecedented amount of chaos. We know as much from my client, Mr Farish." Holmes paused, mid-sentence, to nod in his direction. "Therefore, it is a simple enough thing to deduct that the bomb at Waterloo was a distraction."

"Of course!" Breathed Lestrade. His tone revealed his irritation that he hadn't figured that out for himself.

"So." Said Holmes. The spotlight was back on him. "How did I know that the bomb was a distraction? A conjecture is one thing, but how did I turn theory into fact?"

"I don't know." Sighed Anderson. "How did you?"

"Blueprints." Holmes smiled. "And timings. The blueprints showed that platform one, where the theft happened, and Mr Baxter's book shop, where the bomb exploded, are at opposite ends of the station. There are no two points that are further apart. Our culprit set off the bomb, knowing full well that it would cause a major panic in the station. He also knew that there was no risk of accidentally blowing up the census document. The bomb would drive everybody to the platform one area, so with all the crowds it would be easy to slip onto a train and steal the document unnoticed. Secondly, the timings. Bomb and train were at exactly the same time. I put two and two together, and concluded that the bomb was a diversion to ensure the success of the theft." Holmes' words hung in the air like the lingering scent of a noisy perfume. Lestrade was the one to snap the silence like a twig.

"But who's the culprit?" He exploded. Holmes rolled his eyes good naturedly.

"Mr O'Friar, the station master, obviously." Said Holmes flippantly. He shot the incarcerated Mr O'Friar a white toothed grin. Then his face turned serious. "Mr O'Friar set off the bomb. Then he disappeared, which is what set us on his trail. But this was a two man job. One man to set off the bomb, the other to steal the document, then later, perform an act of murder."

"And who was the other?" Holmes locked his fingers together with finality.

"_Both_ criminals sit in this very room." He whispered. I blinked twice. What? My gaze landed on Mr O'Friar – but that was impossible. Holmes had said that the _two_ responsible were here. Lestrade? Anderson? Donovan? Dr Cloaker? Or our own client, Mr Rupert Farish? I had no idea. "Let's think this through." Holmes smiled. He was really in his element now. This was the height of the case. The ultimate climax. "We know that two people are involved in this crime. One was Mr O'Friar. He set off the bomb, and I have no doubt that later he would have helped sell the document on the black market. But the second person – now, he was surely the mastermind of this underhanded operation!"

_But who is it?_ The phrase swirled round and around in my mind. I studied the faces of the others in the room. Donovan had shifty eyes. She wouldn't hold my gaze. Farish looked queasy and pale. Anderson openly hated Holmes and Lestrade had gone uncharacteristically quiet. Who was the criminal? Holmes began to pace the room. "Who is the mastermind?" He murmured rhetorically. His voice was mesmerising in the dim haze of the parlour. "Who used the chaos in the station to their advantage? When a bomb caused panic, who stole onto a train, threatened Dr Cloaker, then robbed him of his priceless document? Who set us on Brian Lamb's trail, knowing full well that Lamb was innocent? Who murdered Mr Baxter, to make the idea of him being persecuted more believable?"

"So he wasn't actually being persecuted, then?" Cut in Lestrade.

"Of course not! The crooks made it look like he was being persecuted so the police would have an explanation for why a bomb was set off in his shop. Then they murdered him to make the supposed persecution look real."

"I see." Lestrade looked bewildered. But I could still see the light in his eyes. He was following all of Holmes' deductions, realising that they were fact, and kicking himself for not coming to the same conclusions.

"So. Who was this person?" asked Holmes. Deadly quiet. "Well, that person was… _Mr Rupert Farish!" _


	13. Chapter 13

There was a beat of numb silence. I was too shocked to move. Farish? He was our client! He was the one who had brought the case to our attention in the first place! Yet despite this, I could still feel the grip of Holmes' logic. Mr Farish _had_ been at Waterloo at the time of the explosion. He _had_ set us on Brian Lamb's trail. He _had_ claimed that Mr Baxter was being persecuted. And Holmes _had_ pointed out to Farish that the death of Mr Baxter would add credence to the claim of persecution. I was suddenly jerked from my revelry by the emotive roar of Lestrade.

"By JOVE, don't let him get away!" I snapped my head up. Farish was out of his seat, his face a twisted mask of fury, his eyes brighter than a pyroclastic flow. He was tugging frantically on the door handle, but of course, it was locked.

"Don't move." Farish froze. Behind him towered Holmes, face a mask of living stone, a shiny revolver clasped between strong fingers. The revolver was aimed at Farish's head. "Sit down." Holmes instructed calmly. Trembling, Mr Farish collapsed into my reading chair. Quick as a panther, Lestrade was on him, cuffing his hands behind his back. Holmes lowered the gun, face set in a cold countenance. But when he turned his head towards me, I saw the twinkle in his eye. I allowed myself a small smile. Holmes would never have killed Farish in cold blood. That just wasn't how he rolled.

"Rupert Farish, you are under arrest for murder, theft and an act of terrorism. You have the right to remain silent-"

"Save me the speech." Farish cut Lestrade off. Those burning eyes were fixed on Holmes. "You really are as clever as they say. I should never have come to you with the case. I… underestimated your intellectual prowess." He growled. Holmes shrugged.

"One does his best."

"Please, answer this one question." Farish continued. I shot him a quizzical glance. What was he up to? "How did you know it was me?"  
"I have already explained how I formulated a chain of events-"

"Yes. I know." Snapped Farish. His sudden anger revealed his bitter disappointment at being caught. "But what first tipped you off? Please. I want to know." Holmes clasped his hands behind his back.

"Coffee, Farish, coffee. When you first presented this case to myself and Watson, you were wearing your rail guard uniform. Watson and I deduced afterwards that due to your… uh, _low income_, that you were wearing the only uniform you owned." My mind flashed back to the conversation with Holmes in the taxi, outside Waterloo.

"So?" Farish looked pained. "The census document would have made us richer than our wildest dreams! But what has my uniform got to do with _anything_?"

"What?" Holmes looked distracted. "The uniform is irrelevant. It's the coffee that's important. You told us that you were drinking coffee at the time of the explosion. You also claimed that the explosion knocked you off your feet. It would have certainly upset the coffee. But there was no stain on your uniform, and this got me thinking. What if you had _known_ that the bomb was going to go off? You would have put down the coffee in advance, thus avoiding the stain. You also said that the staff lounge was an unpopular destination. I deduced that this insalubrious lounge would therefore have been empty on the day of the blast. All small details, but enough to set me on your trail."

"Remarkable." Breathed Farish. His voice was a sonorous bell which held a bitter ring.

"Sorry, but are we done here?" Lestrade hoisted Farish to his feet. "Anderson, get O'Friar. Donovan, escort them both to the cart outside. And Mr Holmes? Dr Watson? Thanks you. I expect I'll see you both in court."

"Looking forward to it." Holmes tipped an invisible hat to Lestrade, then saw the police and their criminals out the door. Finally they were gone.

"Oh my days." I gasped once Holmes and I were alone. "I'll go pop the kettle on."

Hours later, Holmes and I were sitting in our dressing gowns in the now empty parlour. Holmes was smoking his favourite cigar, the cigar I had mentally dubbed as the "victory cigar."

"So, my dear Watson." Holmes said around the foul smelling tobacco. "What do you make of the day's developments?" I stretched luxuriously, and slid my slippers that little bit closer to the fire.

"I'm utterly gobsmacked." I shared a smile with Holmes. "However, there is _one _loose end that I wouldn't mind tying up."  
"Oh? What's that, then?"

"What happened to the census document? It was stolen, but where is it now?" Holmes' handsome face cracked into a broad grin, as though he had been waiting for me to bring this up all night. He slid a slender hand into his pocket. When it emerged, the musician's fingers were clasping a yellowed document.

"Holmes?" I gasped. "That can't be…" Holmes chuckled loudly at my amazement.

"Yes it is. One census document from the 1086 Greater Domesday book."

"But… how did you get it?"

"Remember when we tried to arrest Mr O'Friar?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well, it wasn't a complete failure. I managed to grab the census document from Mr O'Friar's flat just before I was arrested myself. When that blundering policeman thought I was picking the lock, I was actually relocking it on my way out."

"Holmes…" I was at a loss for words. "You are a wizard! Dr Cloaker is going to be ecstatic!"

"I'll send it to him first thing in the morning." Holmes nodded. "But for now, Watson, let's finish that chess game."


End file.
